Though he was busy with war,
He loved the way of the scholar.
His work of achieving peace
Shone brilliantly.

Happy is he, that with fix'd Eyes
The Fountain of all goodness spies!
Happy is he, that can break through
Those Bonds, which tie him here below!
The Thracian poet long ago
Kind Orpheus , full of tears and wo
Did for his lov'd Euridice
In such sad Numbers mourn, that he
Made the Trees run in to his mone,
And Streams stand still to hear him grone.
The Does came fearless in one throng
With Lyons to his mournful Song,
And charm'd by the harmonious sound
The Hare stay'd by the quiet Hound .
But when Love height'ned by despair

Faint and more faint amid the world of dreams,
That which was once my all, thy image, seems
Pale as a star that in the morning gleams.

Long time that sweet face was my guiding star,
Bringing me visions of the fair and far,
Remote from this world's toil and this world's jar.

Around it was an atmosphere of light,
Deep with the tranquil loveliness of night,
Subdued and shadowy, yet serenely bright.

Like to a spirit did it dwell apart,
Hushed in the sweetest silence of my heart,
Lifting me to the heaven from whence thou art.

Here Cupid tempers his unerring darts,
And in the fount of bliss delights to play;
Here mingles balmy sighs and pleasing smarts,
And here the honeyed draught will oft allay
With that black poison's all-polluting sway,
For wretched man. Hither, as Venus willed,
For Psyche's punishment he bent his way;
From either stream his amber vase he filled —
For her were meant the drops which grief alone distilled.

His quiver, sparkling bright with gems and gold,
From his fair plumed shoulder graceful hung,

Thy lovely saints do bring Thee love,
Incense and joy and gold;
Fair star with star, fair dove with dove,
Beloved by Thee of old.
I, Master, neither star nor dove,
Have brought Thee sins and tears;
Yet I too bring a little love
Amid my flaws and fears.
A trembling love that faints and fails
Yet still is love of Thee,
A wondering love that hopes and hails
Thy boundless Love of me;
Love kindling faith and pure desire,
Love following on to bliss,
A spark, O Jesus, from Thy fire,
A drop from Thine abyss.

'Tis men who say that through all hurt and pain
The woman's love, wife's, mother's, still will hold,
And breathes the sweeter and will more unfold
For winds that tear it, and the sorrowful rain.
So in a thousand voices has the strain
Of this dear patient madness been retold,
That men call woman's love. Ah! they are bold,
Naming for love that grief which does remain.

Love faints that looks on baseness face to face:

A little child she, half defiant came
Reasoning her case — 'twas not so long ago —
" I cannot mind your scolding, for I know
However bad I were you'd love the same."
And I, what countering answer could I frame?
'Twas true, and true, and God's self told her so.
One does but ask one's child to smile and grow,
And each rebuke has love for its right name.

And yet, methinks, sad mothers who for years,
Watching the child pass forth that was their boast,
Have counted all the footsteps by new fears

The poorest peasant of the meanest soil,
The child of poverty, and heir to toil,
Early, from radiant love's impartial light,
Steals one small spark to cheer his world of night:
Dear spark! which oft, through winter's chilling woes,
Is all the warmth his little cottage knows!

Laura was lightsome, gay, and free from guile;
Bright were her eyes, and beautiful her smile;
Women found fault, but men were heard to swear
That she was lovely, though she was not fair .
Her parents were not rich, nor very poor;

Loud sung the wind in the ruins above
Which murmured the warnings of time o'er our head,
While fearless we offered devotions to love,
The rude rock our pillow, the rushes our bed!

Damp was the chill of the wintery air,
But it made us cling closer, and warmly unite;
Dread was the lightning, and horrid its glare,
But it showed me my Julia in languid delight.

To my bosom she nestled and felt not a fear
Though the shower did beat and the tempest did frown;
Her sighs were as sweet and her murmurs as dear

O Love ! O beauteous Love!
— Thy home is made for all sweet things,
A dwelling for thine own soft dove
— And souls as spotless as her wings;
There summer ceases never:
The trees are rich with luscious fruits,
— The bowers are full of joyous throngs,
And gales that come from Heaven's own lutes
— And rivulets whose streams are songs
Go murmuring on for ever!

O Love! O wretched Love!
— Thy home is made for bitter care;
And sounds are in thy myrtle grove
— Of late repentance, long despair,
Of feigning and forsaking: